


Boys like night

by Kujaku



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Psychopaths In Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kujaku/pseuds/Kujaku
Summary: Written for MontSous week 2019 on tumblr.(find me at kujaku-myoo, or see-you-on-the-barricade)





	1. First meeting

It was the witching hour, that silent, still moment betweeen three and four o'clock, where everything was like suspended in time. Children were safely tucked in their beds, husbands and wives whispered sweet nothings and sighed in contentment behind their shuttered windows, and the only things that erred in the streets were the cats and the starving poor.  
But the poor weren't only outside. In the taverns and the even less reputable houses of the lower tows, people still laughed and drank and sang. And in one tavern in particular, a hungry child was looking at the half-empty plates with too-wide eyes.  
They didn't see him. No-one noticed one more person starving in the streets of Paris. He was just another gamin who tried to stay alive one day more, and if he looked five or ten years younger than his actual years (even if he had no true idea of his age), it was only because of the hunger.  
And the discarded chicken leg just an arm's length away from him was an tantalising view. And just like that, he grabbed it and started to run. 

Voices rose behind him. He could hear the footsteps chasing him down the dark alley and he began to run faster, shoes slipping on the smooth cobblestones. Where was he going? He thought he knew the streets by heart, but he'd taken a wrong turn and now he was completely lost. His breath was burning his lungs and he could feel the panic rising. If they caught him, they'd beat him and leave him for dead on the streets. Or do worse. He'd seen it all already.  
But he couldn't find way out, he couldn't! And when he got to the end of the alley, there was just a wall blocking the way.  
He was trapped.  
Suddenly an arm snaked out from behind him and pulled him into a tiny, tiny alcove; no noise, nothing at all, and the group of angry men passed into the alleyway, looked around, and fell back towards another street, all the time shouting bloody murder.

It took a while for his heart to stop beating frantically and he noticed only after that that the stranger still had his arm around his waist. With a snarl, the young man jumped back fumbling for a weapon but his savior only raised his hands, face hidden in the shadows.  
\- Hey, calm down. I won't hurt you.  
\- Prove it.  
\- I would have already killed you if I had wanted to. They call me Claquesous. Who are you?  
\- Come out so I can see your face.  
\- That's going to be complicated.  
The shadow - Claquesous - moved into the feeble light coming from the moon. He had spoken true, seeing his face would be complicated as it was hidden under a mask. A simple piece of ripped fabric and two holes for the eyes, it was like the night itself was caressing the other boy's face.  
But instead of hesitating, the first boy held out his hand.  
\- I call myself Montparnasse.  
\- Like the graveyard?  
\- Exactly. Why did you help me?  
Claquesous motionned towards the piece of chicken that Montparnasse still held and his grey eyes seemed to suddenly take on a more desperate tint.  
\- I hoped you'd share.

And just like that, they found each-other. Two lost boys in the gutter of the city of lights, ready to take on the world.


	2. Blood

Snow had begun to cover the ground and Paris was freezing, shuddering under a veil of ice. The Seine sluggishly kept going, but even that mighty river seemed to be hibernating, just waiting for the spring thaw. There were several hideouts along the banks, each with it's own inhabitants, and in a tiny hole just a few inches from the frozen water, huddled behind a makeshift door, Montparnasse and Claquesous were sitting together, wrapped up in anything they had found to keep warm. No point in lighting a fire here, not when you weren't a hundred thousand percent certain that you could fend off whoever came. So they waited, drifting in and out of sleep, each taking turns to keep an eye on the surroundings.  
But Montparnasse couldn't sleep.   
It wasn't that he was hungry (they managed to eat now that they were a team) and he wasn't cold (at least, not as cold as he'd been) but he was still incapable of falling asleep. His eyes were wide open, fixated upon a small drop of crimson at the corner of Claquesous' mouth. It was the only speck of colour in the dark and cold hole they were in, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.  
Why the blood was there and how it had appeared wasn't important. It wasn't as if they weren't a bit beaten up all the time, with scuffs and tangles with other youngsters from the gutter or the law. But that one small blood drop was shining in the early morning light like a star.  
Stupid. It was stupid. It was so bloody (ha!) stupid and yet Montparnasse couldn't stop himself from moving a tiny bit closer to his friend, eyes still unmoving from that small red spot. Slowly, and still not totally understanding what was going on and why he was doing this, he lightly brushed his friend's mouth, before pressing a ghost-like kiss to the pale lips under his.

The grey eyes snapped open and Montparnasse moved back, cursing under his breath. But Claquesous simply smiled, arms coming around his waist to hold him close.  
\- Are you that cold, 'Parnasse? You need to get closer?  
\- Oh shut up, you masked freak...  
Claquesous couldn't help grinning, and kissed Montparnasse again.  
\- You are so adorable when you're flustered... And here I was thinking you weren't ever going to take the hint.  
\- I hate you.


	3. Faces

The winter of 1829 was the coldest of the entire century; if the people of Paris could have seen the archives, they would have understood why the Seine froze and birds dropped dead from the very skies. Children died. Old people died. Horses died in the streets and all those who didn't stayed huddled in front of their tiny fires, hoping against hope that the spring warmth would find them soon. Those who survived day after day praised God and massed to church to thank the angels for their protection.   
But in the shadows, Patron-Minet chose to thank their luck instead of anything else. 

They had grown, these two young boys who had met each-other in a dark alley. They had grown cold and gaunt and with enough fire in their hearts to survive anything. They had clawed their way through sheer will and were now part of a group of four, dark shapes that preyed on all those who were foolish or unfortunate enough to cross their paths. They had honed skills under the watchful eye of the back-street doctor who played surgeon to the darkness, they had learnt to disappear like smoke and mist.  
It was early morning, just before the sunrise (or at least what sunrise existed in this biting winter) and Patron-Minet went their separate ways; easier to escape the police that were looking for troublemakers if they didn't stand out.

Montparnasse and Claquesous walked towards their tiny hideout, the silence between them something of an eternal companion. After those few years living one with the other, neither needed much else. They had a roof (even if it leaked), they had bread on the table (the baker just down the road was an easy target) and they had a bed that quickly warmed up when they were tangled in it and in each-other. They weren't far from their place but they didn't rush. Not only did they not want to break an ankle or a neck on the icy cobbles that bordered the river, a walk was sometimes pleasant.  
But Claquesous erred a little, his steps taking him to the Seine and his eyes losing themselves in the dark water in front of him. Curious, Montparnasse followed to see what his lover had seen, and came to a stop as he noticed the pale shape hardly meters from them.  
A face, pale in frigid light, a face pale as the moon. A face that stared up at them, drowned and dead, as pale as the skin that Montparnasse sometimes spied from under Claquesous' eternal mask.   
Something was happening at this moment, he could feel it. There wasn't a name for the attraction that the face was having on Claquesous but Montparnasse was certain that it wasn't something good. Blood and violence and burning grey eyes were what he knew, what he desired in his lover; not the frozen calm and the stillness that pervaded the instant. So he reached out and softly touched Claquesous' shoulder.  
\- Come on, let's go home.  
No answer and not a single movement, so he continued.  
\- 'Sous, let's go. It's just a corpse.  
\- It could have been me...  
\- It isn't. Come on.  
\- Look at that face...   
\- 'Sous, look at me. 

Claquesous shifted, his eyes staring out from the bone-white mask. Montparnasse had never seen what face was under those masks, and he'd never asked. Maybe one day he would. Maybe one day he'd ask what the dead face in the water reminded Claquesous of, but today was not that day. Today was not that day.  
\- Come on. It's going to snow.


	4. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope-y. But hey, I like tropes.

Stitches

\- Well, that was a fucking disaster! Seriously, what the fuck was that all about?  
\- Stop running your mouth and move faster, kid! If the law gets us, we're nicked!  
\- Like I need you to tell me that, asshole!

They were running. Fast. Faster than they'd run in ages. The whole plan had fallen apart quicker than quicksilver, no-one had expected the police to show up so soon, no-one had expected the mark to just be a huge bull of a man afraid of nothing. But they should have had, to be honest. Thenardier was a fucking dick and his greed and stupidity had fucked them again.   
It was to be for the last time, they all swore. They damn well wouldn't ever be caught working with that bastard again.

Once again, Patron-Minet split up. Babet and Gueulemer slinked away along the river, Babet still complaining and swearing under his breath. Still running, Montparnasse and Claquesous took another street that led straight into the underbelly of the city; their knives were still out, flashing in the moonlight, and neither thought to put them away. They should have, because as they rounded a corner, their shoes slipped on the damp cobblestones and they fell without even a split second to realise what had happened.   
In fact, it was only when Claquesous tried to get up that he noticed the red on the cobblestones, the red on his hands and on his shirt, and the red smearing Montparnasse's coat. He tried to understand what he was seeing, and finally saw the knife planted up to the hilt in his side.  
He looked over at Montparnasse, the pain and the panic tainting his voice.  
\- 'Parnasse... I...  
Claquesous tried to speak louder but the words were like syrup in his mouth, unable to come out. He held out a hand and fell like a stone into Montparnasse's arms.

*  
It was cold, wet and dark in the tiny back-alley room they'd crawled into. The owner was a tight-lipped son of a bitch who would rat them out for the right price, but for now he would simply shut his face and count the coins Montparnasse had thrown at him.  
The door closed, and Montparnasse put Claquesous on the half-broken bed, not caring to be gentle as he undressed him; the masked thief had already lost a large amount of blood, now was not the time to worry about something as ridiculous as comfort. Through gritted teeth he fished around for a needle and some thread, before grabbing a half-empty bottle of some vile alcohol that had lain there for who knows how long. He took a long drink and sloshed the rest of the bottle over the needle, the thread and the wound. Claquesous moaned, the bite of the alcohol reaching him through the haze of pain, but Montparnasse didn't wait to comfort him. He just took the needle and started to sew up the gash - red and bloody and oozing. There'd be a scar, and an ugly one, over Claquesous's left hip, but only if he survived.  
And he was going to fucking survive. They hadn't gone through all the colours of the fucking rainbow of shit together just for one of them to die from his own fucking knife. And seriously, if 'Sous died here, on a shitty run-down bed in the middle of nowhere, Montparnasse had quite frankly no idea what he would do. The other two assholes would still be there, but it wouldn't be the same. If 'Sous died - stupid fucking idea, no way was that going to happen, no fucking way - he'd be alone. Really alone, for the first time in years.   
And that...that wasn't something he was willing to even begin to think about. 

So instead he sat and he waited and he ran his still-bloodstained fingers through Claquesous' hair.  
\- Don't die on me, you fucking fuck.


End file.
